Something I was working on  last time  B&B was on... and completely forgot about.
It's not slash, sorry -  but I figure any fic's better than no fic.  One of these days I'll
find the other pieces/finish'em, whatever.

DISCLAIMER:     Not mine.  Look ma, no leash.
TITLE:          Sonnenuntergang
AUTHOR:         arjuna
FANDOM:         Bronski & Bernstein
PAIRING:        N/A
RATING:         G
ARCHIVE:        :: shrugs :: as you wish, just let me know
SUMMARY:        As the sun sets over Hamburg
COMMENTS:       Written for hubby, can't remember why...
                Mood piece; edited but not beta-ed, posting just to get it orf the to-go list really.




===============
Sonnenuntergang
===============

Theo waits quietly while Ilona finishes up for the day.  It's peaceful here, in almost the
largest room in the building.  Everything seems still, constant; the buzz of the striplights
hypnotic and comforting.  One or two are faulty, have been as long as Theo can remember.
They click and tick arrhythmically on the edge of perception, frame and complement the gentle
hum of the refrigeration units.

Five bodies, tonight.  Four naturals...  Theo doesn't mind.  He's learned to like the company
of the dead.  He talks to them, sometimes, when he's alone; when he's working late, and can't
think, and needs peace.  So do they, the ones who shouldn't be here.  The ones he's here to...
not avenge, that's far too dramatic.  A Bernstein claim.  No, Theo's job is to understand.
To represent.

Being here, where they rest, reminds him there's a point to it all.  The fact that Rita Keil
won't venture past the door is a bonus.

— He left prints, Julie, he says now, to the girl in the third drawer down on the other side
of the room.  Fourteen.  Pregnant.  Shot.  — Good prints.  The boys are on it now.  And your
Mum's flying back tonight.

He knows that Ilona, next door with the sterilisation fluid, is listening.  As always, she
keeps her counsel, says nothing.

She doesn't let herself become too curious about who her patients were, before.   She
sees herself as responsible for facts about them, for truths, for finding him proof.   It'd
be true no matter what she did.  Librarian, doctor, traffic warden...

Her predecessor, an ascerbic ex-serviceman, believed the dead watched over the world.
Depended on him and Theo and everyone in 413.  An ageing, wounded drinker, he took for
granted the persistence of a spirit wronged.

Theo tells himself he's been a policeman far too long to believe in the soul.   It's what
he'd tell everyone else, if they asked, which they don't.   Not Bronski, not Rita, not Renz.
Ilona believes she’s immune to such things, taught well by parents whose own beliefs perished
amid the rubble of Allied bombardments.

Theo knows better.

She bustles back into the room, preoccupied.  — Right... I think that's everything...

— Ready when you are.

She's not really listening; checking switches are off and instruments clean, everything left
as she would wish to find it.   She follows the same routine every day, the same path around
the room.  Touching each occupied drawer as she passes, absently.

He smiles quietly to himself and follows her out of the room.   Touches Julie's drawer,
himself, on the way out.  A promise; the one he refused her mother.

The mirror in the cloakroom shows him two tired, crumpled people at the end of a long and
unrewarding day.  Ilona touches up her hair, her make-up, impatiently; her mind somewhere
else.  Somewhere better, he hopes.  Theo wants nothing more, suddenly, than to hold her;
contents himself with a smile, a step back, helping her on with her coat.

— Dr Bachschuster?  Hauptkommissar?  Hallo?

Hesitant steps echo in the lab.

— Hallo?

Theo swears.  It's been weeks since they had any real time together; time to talk.  He steps
reluctantly back toward the other room.  Ilona gestures impatiently.  Don't answer, she means.
Just this once.

— Please...

Her fleeting exasperation bothers him less than the resignation in her voice.  It's a token
request.  It's understood, always, that he must go; it's who he is.  He steps forward, slowly,
swearing at Bernstein under his breath.

— Ah well.

It's not Ilona's hand on his arm that stops him; it's Bernstein himself.  Leaning casually
against a dissection table; whistling under his breath.  A dilettante; a tourist in other
people's misery.  A stupid boy, playing police.

Theo's anger rises fast as Bernstein shrugs; speed-dials a number on his ever-present mobile.
He's halfway into the room before his words register.

— They're not here.  Ok.  Yeah, I'll be right up.  Ok.  Ok.  Tschuess.

He lets Ilona pull him back out of sight, gives up on keeping his rage under control at the
smooth sound of well-oiled casters.   Bernstein's standing against the cabinet, looking down
at Julie.  The overhead lighting shadows his face, leaves it unreadable.

— If he touches her, thinks Theo, furious, — if he... if he anything...

— Theo.

Julie's hair — auburn and short  — peeks out over the top of the drawer.

— Theo!  Stop.

Ilona hits him suddenly, on the shoulder.

-- What?

— Listen, she hisses. — Listen.

— Hey kiddo, says Bernstein softly.  — Your Mum's just landed.  We'll pick her up, when she's
ready.  Let the Doc tidy you up a bit first, eh?

He reaches down, as if to stroke her hair; stops.  Stands a little straighter.

— We'll get him, you know, he says, almost conversationally.   — Never you mind how.  We just
will.  I  promise.

Ilona takes Theo's hand as Bernstein closes the drawer and walks away.  Slowly, respectfully;
nothing at all like the boisterous puppy they're used to.

Theo relaxes, the tension leaving muscles far too often taut.  He hurts, suddenly; all over.
Ilona's arms encircle him, pull him into her warmth.  He doesn't resist, suddenly and
strangely ashamed.  Feeling every day of his forty-odd years.

— You never told me, he mutters.

Ilona doesn't answer; just stands, and holds him.   They listen as Bernstein's footsteps
recede; just listen and stand, as the sun sets again without them.

=== © arjuna 2005 =====